


Harry Potter and the Spy of the Order

by HPFandom_archivist



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-12-12
Updated: 2009-04-12
Packaged: 2018-09-30 20:23:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 9,372
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10171118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HPFandom_archivist/pseuds/HPFandom_archivist
Summary: Snape finds that Harry Potter may not be quite the spoiled brat he'd thought the boy was. He does not care about the Potter whelp. He does NOT. Really.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Note from SeparatriX, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [HP Fandom](http://fanlore.org/wiki/HP_Fandom_\(archive\)), which was closed for health and financial reasons. To preserve the archive, I began manually importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in August 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact me using the e-mail address on [HP Fandom collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/hpfandom/profile).

_Not sure where I’m going with this, but I have the impulse to write a story centered around Severus Snape and Harry Potter. Perhaps not in that order. Kind of a Severitus, except with no blood relation between the two—I can’t see that being even remotely cannon no matter how people explain it, and therefore haven’t actually been able to get through those stories that I’ve begun reading unless someone has a more creative way than ‘Snape is Harry’s father’ to go about it. And, no offence to those who do like it, I hate the tendency people have to change his appearance drastically for such stories. Harry should not suddenly look like Snape. Ever. It’s just wrong. Give Snape his own kid if you want a mini-Snape running around Hogwarts._

_Mind, none of this, except ideas, belong to me. I believe Rowling owns Harry Potter and the attendant characters, though not necessarily all the settings. Most, yes, all, no. London, for instance, belongs to the British Isles…_

AU fifth year

Harry Potter stumbled, catching himself against the stone wall of a darkened corridor, barely able to remain upright as he struggled blindly down the hall. It was after hours—he’d get detention if Filch caught him out—and sadly lacking in the realm of invisibility. He wasn’t sure where he was going and the tiny ball of bluish light at the end of his wand flickered feebly, threatening to go out.

Not that the light was doing him much good, anyway, if he was honest with himself. The headache left over from his nightmare kicked up a few more notches and his vision fuzzed.

He rubbed at his eyes with the hand holding the wand, dimly noting sticky wetness under his fingers, leaning heavily against the wall as he continued to stumble forward. A glance around told him nothing, and he found that even maintaining the simple _lumos_ was becoming too much and the light sputtered and died.

He stumbled again, but this time his hand on the wall wasn’t enough to catch himself with and he hit his knees, his wand clattering to the ground and skidding out of reach.

xxxx

Severus Snape was not much of a night person, despite the occasional comparisons to creatures such as bats or vampires. (He was also not a vampire, but that’s neither here nor there.) Due to this fact, he absolutely _detested_ having the occasional patrol duty in the halls.

He was good at it though, and students out of bed rarely made it past him unnoticed, unless they were somehow warned of his presence on a floor. Not to mention they had the (rather stupid, if you asked Snape) tendency to use light-charms in order to find their ways at night, when they should be safely holed up in their dormitories.

It was ridiculously easy to spot a light moving down a hall, and often possible to pinpoint a location from another floor when students passed staircases.

This night was no different, at least in the aspect of spotting a wanderer who probably should not be wandering.

Annoyed, Snape took the nearest flight of stairs that would bring him to the correct floor and aimed for the flickering light—from the feeble look of the spell, probably an over-enthusiastic first-year. Even Longbottom could hold a _lumos_ better than that by the time he’d reached second year.

When the light flickered and died out, he felt something between amusement and disdain—definitely a first year, unable to even control so simple a spell.

He made no effort to conceal his approach, but heard the sharp clatter of a wand hitting stone—a clumsy first-year, it seemed.

Then he noticed he could hear labored breathing, and, mixed with his annoyance at dealing with unruly students came a faint—very faint—hint of concern. The as-yet unidentified student was far enough away to be out of immediate sight and hadn’t been moving quickly. It was possible that the student was ill—it was, after all, the correct floor for the infirmary.

“ _Lumos_ ,” Snape murmured, and a steady ball of blue-white light appeared at the tip of his wand, casting an eerily pale circle of visibility around him—and in the edge of that circle was a wand.

Not just any wand. Potter’s wand. “Mr. Potter,” the Potions Master sneered, fully intent on docking points and handing out detention.

Snape snatched up the wand before taking another step forward, about to berate the arrogant whelp when he felt the dampness on the wood. He paused, glancing down, and noticed a dark liquid streaked on his fingers. Curious, he raised his hand and sniffed, unable to pinpoint the color in the tinted light of his wand.

_Blood._

“Potter?” He asked, irritation lessened when a hint of something else crept into his chest.

He was _not_ concerned. Not for the Potter brat.

There was no response past a slight hitch in the ragged breathing, and Snape took another step forward, then froze. The boy’s was pale, even considering the lighting, and that same dark liquid covered half his face, dripping into his robes where he knelt, his body wracked with visible tremors.

All right. _Now_ he had to admit to mild concern, though irritation still predominated. The stupidity of Gryffindors was astounding—what was the idiot boy _thinking_ , wandering the halls in such a state? Alone and at night no less! “Potter.”

The boy jerked, his head snapping up, glasses missing and eyes fogged with blood and incomprehension. Without thinking, he pocketed the boy’s wand and knelt, brushing back unruly black locks to check for the source of the blood—the damn scar was split open and bleeding. Profusely—more so than even the average head injury.

Snape forgot about taking points and moved to pull the boy to his feet, intending to get him to Pomfrey, when Potter jerked out of his grasp and crumpled to the floor, back arching in unmistakable pain, breathing suddenly erratic.

_Damn._ “Potter!” two quick spells had the boy lightly restrained and levitated—he needed the hospital wing, and quickly. “Damn it, boy, don’t you _dare_ die on me!”

It wasn’t until he cast a heart-monitoring charm while directing the still-unresponsive form towards the infirmary (at least the boy was on the right floor, which indicated he had some small shred of sense and had been seeking help) and found the boy’s heartbeat fluttering irregularly that he realized just how close to death the child was.

Snape’s magic slammed open the infirmary doors as he approached, without his conscious direction. “Poppy! Get in here!” Merlin, he hoped she was awake.

By the time the nurse appeared, rather disheveled, Snape had gotten Potter onto one of the beds and the boy had gone completely limp. If not for the charm, it would have been difficult to tell the boy was alive. It took Madame Pomfrey a moment to understand what she was seeing, but when she did she gasped and immediately set to work.

As she checked the diagnostic, her expression grew more serious and was heading towards horrified. “Severus… what _happened_ to this child?”

He shook his head shortly, “I don’t know. I found him in the corridor not far from here, half-conscious and shaking. Within moments, he was writhing as though under held under _crucio_ and completely unresponsive.”

“There’s extensive nerve damage—evidence of overexposure to the Crucatious Curse—and traces of extremely dark magic, but I can’t pinpoint exact curses. Superficial bruising—probably self-inflicted from convulsions—and muscle damage from the same. The lining of his lungs is irritated and I wouldn’t be surprised if he started coughing blood.” She glanced back at the list, then the bed. “I don’t have any potions to counteract the effects of Crucatious on hand, and I’ll need to run a more extensive diagnostic once he’s stabilized…”

“I have something in my personal stores,” Snape stated, turning towards the Floo. It would be much faster than walking to his rooms and back.

xxxx

As soon as Snape was satisfied that Pomfrey could handle things on her own, he fire-called the Headmaster to inform of the rather unfortunate events. Albus’ perpetual eye-twinkle vanished and he came through in a bright purple night-robe the likes of which Severus Snape never wanted to see again.

Both males waited in silence for Poppy to finish her bustling about, and approached when she sank onto a nearby bed with a sigh.

“How is he?” Albus asked quietly.

“He’ll live.” The mediwitch rubbed a hand over her face wearily, “I need to run another diagnostic in a few minutes, after the potions have had time to work. And I can’t heal the scar—it’s still open, but at least the bleeding has gone down.”

Not precisely encouraging, though the fact that the boy would survive was a small relief. Silence stretched in the medical ward until Madame Pomfrey hauled herself back to her feet and muttered a charm over the prone form.

She sat back with the scrolling ‘parchment’, reading down the list. “I still can’t pinpoint the curses. It’s almost as though he was caught in the essence of the magic without being a direct recipient of the curses themselves…” she sighed again, continuing to scan down the list towards older injuries—it was a far longer list than she had expected from someone his age.

She paused, frowning. “Chronic malnutrition, minor internal bleeding, scarring, bruising, broken bones…” she trailed off, raising her head, expression unreadable. “Albus… he’s been abused.”

xxxx


	2. Chapter 2

  
Author's notes: Maybe the Harry Potter wasn't such a spoiled brat after all. But he was not starting to care about the whelp. He was NOT.  


* * *

I claim nothing but my ideas. Rowling claims HP.

xxxx

Severus Snape cast a glance at the Headmaster and saw shock written in his face and stance, his blue eyes fading towards grey, his entire demeanor speaking of silent horror.

If he was honest with himself, Snape wasn’t handling the news much better. Harry Potter, the bloody Gryffindor Golden Boy, was not supposed to be anything short of pampered in his home-life. Like his father.

It didn’t make sense—the abused children never ended up in Gryffindor. The mindset of someone subjected to abuse was _not_ the mindset of a Gryffindor. Most of the few wizard children who had been abused were placed in Slytherin, the intent to survive against the odds by whatever means necessary often translated into ambition, the ability to hide any signs of a troubled home-life marked cunning, or at least acting ability. There was the occasional Ravenclaw—the smarter ones pushed aside their misery with learning, using books to hide from the realities in their lives. Even—twice in the past three hundred years or so—the rare Hufflepuff, when a child’s loyalty and heart was great enough to stand the torment for the sake of another, both times a younger sibling.

But never, _never_ , had a Gryffindor been the victim of abuse. Of course McGonagall wouldn’t have recognized the signs—even Flintwick wouldn’t, certainly Sprout had never had to deal with such things. Severus’ Snakes were good enough actors to keep any but their head of house noticing, but Snape had his own untoward experiences to call upon for reference, and, even so, there was only one presently at Hogwarts in such straits, a Slytherin. A seventh year who had been removed to better housing.

So how was it that a Gryffindor—and not just any Gryffindor, but the Golden Boy, the very _personification_ of the Lion’s traits—managed to not only be abused but hide the signs of it well enough that no one noticed?

There had to be some other explanation. No one could be abused and remain so firmly set in the Light. Not even Harry Potter.

There _had_ to be another explanation.

xxxx

The first thing that Harry noticed upon waking was that he was in considerably less pain than he had been in the last time he’d been aware. His migraine had settled to ‘excruciating but livable’ instead of ‘ _crucio_ to the head’. Not that he was planning on _moving_ any time soon—that was a bit too daring. Especially because his entire body ached, though, again, it was better than the last waking memory he had.

The second thing he noticed was that he was in a bed, presumably in the hospital wing, if the brightness against his eyelids had anything to say about it—he wasn’t quite up to opening them yet.

“Potter?”

Harry struggled to place the voice without having to open his eyes for a face—the light was bad enough with them closed. He idly wondered how the voice’s owner had known he was awake, as he hadn’t moved yet.

“I know you’re awake, Potter. Your breathing shifted.”

Oh. Well, that answered that, at any rate. Now, what adult male in the castle called him ‘Potter’?

_Merlin._ Who else would it be? Why on earth did he have to wake up and have Snape, of all people, waiting at his bedside? Well, best to get this over with.

“Professor?” the intended query came out as a raspy croak, and he had to fight the urge to cough. He had the feeling that it would be a very unpleasant experience if he did.

He heard a soft release of breath, almost a sigh of relief, “Thank Merlin. Can you open your eyes?”

_Thank Merlin?_ Snape couldn’t really be _that_ relieved that Harry was waking up, could he? Still, he cracked his eyes open, just a little, before wincing them back shut again. The blazing lights of the hospital wing sent shafts of pain through his already throbbing skull. Without realizing it, Harry let out a slight whimper.

There was a pause, then a rustle of cloth and the sound of something small and hard—probably glass—being lifted from wood. An arm slid beneath Harry’s shoulders and eased him up into a sitting position, a slight shift and his head was being supported on what he presumed was Snape’s shoulder, but he was too tired and achy to care. He heard the pop of a cork and felt a small vial against his lips.

“Drink, Potter. It should help with the pain.”

Harry obeyed, nearly gagging as the thick, vicious liquid clung bitterly to the back of his throat. Oddly enough, it was the bitterness that helped him stave off the reflex and swallow. The pain dulled to something tolerable and Harry braved opening his eyes as the Potions Master helped him lie back down.

“Rest awhile, Potter. I’m going to inform the Headmaster that you’ve awoken.”

Severus did not expect the boy to be coherent enough to realize what had happened, yet, but the Headmaster needed to be told that the boy was awake and… sane, at least. How much damage had been done by the extensive exposure to the curse was yet to be seen.

He moved away from the bed and was nearly at the fireplace when a weak voice made him pause.

“Thanks, Professor.”

He hesitated, then shook his head and continued on. What did it matter that the whelp was grateful?

xxxx

“Albus?” Severus asked, stopping the man as he was on his way to the Great Hall.

Dumbledore blinked amiably, though he looked tired, “Ah, Severus. Is there any change?”

Snape gave a curt nod, “He is sleeping now, but he was coherent when he woke perhaps ten minutes ago.”

Dumbledore’s expression visibly brightened, the twinkle coming back to his eyes for the first time since Potter had ended up in the infirmary a week ago. “If you could find Ms. Granger and Mr. Weasly and bring them up to the hospital wing?”

If it had come from anyone but the Headmaster, it could have passed as a suggestion, but Snape knew better. He decided he didn’t have the energy to protest and merely inclined his head before making his way to the Great Hall.

xxxx

Harry was feeling slightly muzzy the next time he woke up, this time with Dumbledore sitting next to him, apparently reading. He blinked at the Professor, trying to think clearly, but eventually decided that there was nothing in particular to think about and settled for tilting his now only slightly aching head.

Dumbledore noticed the movement and looked up, a beaming smile spreading across his face, “Harry, my dear boy! How are you feeling this afternoon?”

Harry’s muddled brain latched onto that word. Last he knew, it was night. “Afternoon, sir?” he asked, voice hoarse from disuse.

Dumbledore managed one of those grandfatherly smiles as he conjured a glass of water. “Yes, Harry. Afternoon. You’ve been asleep for nearly a week.”

Harry supposed this news should bother him, but couldn’t bring himself to care. He felt vaguely dizzy, but started to sit up and reach for the glass of water that Dumbledore held out for him. He took several sips before deciding it was a good idea to lie back down when the spinney feeling in his head grew worse. “A week, sir?” He asked more because he felt it expected than anything else.

“Yes, Harry. What do you remember?”

He thought about it, he really did. Finally, he settled on shaking his head. “I don’t know, sir. Everything’s kind of hazy.”

The Headmaster sighed softly, tugging lightly at his beard. “Professor Snape found you in the hallway, about halfway to the hospital wing…”

Harry couldn’t focus on the continued explanation and found himself dozing lightly, only to snap back awake when Dumbledore called his name. “Sorry, Professor,” he mumbled.

Dumbledore gave an indulging smile, “Quite all right, my boy. Perhaps I should let you get back to sleep.”

Harry nodded and closed his eyes, this time on purpose, and soon was back asleep.

xxxx

“He has only remained awake for a few minutes at a time,” Albus observed, seeming concerned.

“And you are telling me this, why?” Snape asked, his tone something between a sneer and honest wondering.

“You have been checking in on him rather often,” the Headmaster pointed out, those damnadable twinkles back in his eyes.

Severus opened his mouth to refute that and found he couldn’t. He scowled instead. “The boy will get himself killed if _someone_ doesn’t keep an eye on him.”

It was a weak excuse and Dumbledore’s chuckles didn’t make him feel any better. Damn it! He was _supposed_ to hate the brat! He was also supposed to ensure said brat’s survival. Merlin, was he actually starting to _care_ about the boy?

If it wouldn’t have been completely out of character, Severus Snape would have dropped his head into his hands and groaned. As it was, he gave an entirely unconvincing glare and stalked out of Dumbledore’s office, not pleased with the insistent chuckling behind him.

xxxx

_I have no idea when I'm going to have another chapter ready, so no one hold your breaths. I have no illusions as to thinking this is my best ever story--it's not. I've done better... but they aren't HP stories and will never find their ways onto this site. One of them I am currently in the middle of, and this fic takes second priority, though it will be finished one day._  



	3. Chapter 3

  
Author's notes: There was something wrong with the Potter brat--and the Potion's Master is acting oddly out of character.  


* * *

Not mine! This site already declares the owner of the original source of everyone I'm borrowing--and I swear I'm not her.

xxxx

The next time Harry woke, he was alone and the hospital wing was blessedly dark. He considered getting up—and decided against it. Madame Pomfrey was not a mediwitch to cross, and he was reasonably certain she would be a bit upset with him if he made a bid for freedom. On the other hand, he was pretty sure he’d been asleep for way longer than he needed to be.

And he was hungry.

Harry sat up, waited a moment for a slight bout of dizziness to pass, and started to climb to his feet only to be interrupted by an irate nurse who came… ‘bolting’ was a bit too strong… ‘striding rapidly’ into the room.

“Oh, no, you don’t, Mr. Potter! You get right back in that bed this instant!”

Harry sat back down.

Madame Pomfrey turned the lights on, thankfully lowly, and took in the boy’s expression.

“Well, I suppose we should be grateful you feel well enough to even try. Lie back down, Mr. Potter, and tell me how you’re feeling.”

Harry did as he was told, albeit reluctantly, as he’d been more than happy to be upright for a while. “A little shaky,” he admitted, “but aside from that I feel pretty well right now. I got dizzy for a minute when I sat up, but it didn’t last long. Mostly I’m just hungry.”

Pomfrey gave an indulgent smile, “Well, I can understand why. I’ll have the house-elves send something up for you—mind, it will be _light_ , and don’t you dare ask for anything else! Your stomach needs to be reintroduced to food; you’ve not eaten in a week.”

Harry gave an appropriately meek “Yes, mam,” and was permitted bread and broth.

Poppy stood and watched him finish before shaking her head, “Try to go back to sleep. If you can’t, there’s a sleeping drought on the table, there. I’ll check on you again in the morning.”

Harry gave a sound of acknowledgement and the mediwitch left, spelling the lights back off.

He had just given up on going to sleep on his own and swallowed the potion when the infirmary door opened and someone slipped inside, gently closing the door behind them. The person moved unerringly towards his bed as the grogginess accompanying a strong sleeping drought set in. He was vaguely aware of long fingers brushing his hair away from his forehead before a cool hand settled on his brow, almost habitually checking his temperature as a second hand wrapped around his wrist, two fingers pressing lightly over the pulse-point for several seconds.

“Are you awake?”

The voice was low, almost hesitant, and Harry couldn’t place it. What with the lights being out and his lack of glasses, he hadn’t a hope of seeing who it was, even without the potion clouding his senses.

“No’ fr long,” he mumbled, turning his head slightly as the hand moved away. A soft sound, almost a chuckle, and the hand was back on his forehead. He sighed softly as his eyes slid closed, giving in to the insistent pull of sleep.

xxxx

Snape stood still for several minutes before pulling his hand away from the sleeping boy’s forehead. Harry’s temperature seemed fine and his pulse was normal, but he shouldn’t still be so tired. Severus doubted the boy had even recognized him.

His glance around the room was habitual, a check for threats or latent information, and he spotted an empty vial on the night-table. On examination, it smelled like a rather powerful sleeping draft—a variation of Dreamless Sleep, without the ‘Dreamless’ part and addictive qualities. Potter must have woken up and been lucid enough that Pomfrey had felt the need to drug him back to sleep for the rest of the night.

Relieved, he caught himself brushing the hair away from the boy’s forehead and recoiled.

Oh, how the mighty had fallen—it was bad enough that he’d actually felt the need to check on the boy before going to bed after a late-night brewing session, now he was practically _fawning_ over the child! Brat. The brat.

The Potions Master sneered at himself and stalked out of the room, catching himself closing the door softly in order to leave the sleeping child— _Brat, damn it!_ —undisturbed, despite the fact that it would take a great deal to wake him, considering the potion he was under.

Albus would never let him live this down.

xxxx

“Well, Mr. Potter,” Madame Pomfrey eyed her wayward charge, “I suppose I could let you attend classes today. Mind, if you start feeling tired or dizzy, you’re to come straight back here!”

Harry nodded vigorously, “Yes, mam.”

“And of course, you won’t, so I’ll be telling those friends of yours to keep an eye on you!” She didn’t mention her intention to firecall his teachers as well. Which she did as soon as she’d giver her instructions to Ron and Hermione and sent the trio off to Charms.

xxxx

Charms went remarkably well, considering he’d missed a whole week of them. He had more trouble than the rest of the class with the bird summoning charm, as he didn’t have the background, but he managed to conjure an odd little red and green songbird of no discernable type by the end of class.

Professor Flintwick handed Harry a list of chapters to read in his Charms textbook and spells he needed to catch up on, then informed him he’d have two weeks before he’d have to demonstrate them after classes on Monday.

“So… what’s next?” Harry asked Ron as they left Charms.

Hermione pulled out her schedule, “Well, there’s lunch—Madame Pomfrey wanted you to eat in the infirmary so she could run another checkup—and then Potions.” Hermione grimaced, “Sorry.”

“Yeah, that’s rough, mate,” Ron observed, “Snape’s gonna be a nightmare. We’ve been working on this really tough potion all week—we’re only starting the brewing today.”

Harry was more concerned from Hermione’s brief ‘Sorry’ than Ron’s warning. Hermione did not apologize for telling someone what their next class was unless it was going to be really bad. He groaned and resisted the urge to bang his head against the wall—it wouldn’t help his slowly returning headache at all.

Ron split off to grab his and Harry’s Potion’s books from the Tower—Hermione, as usual, had hers with her—while Hermione escorted Harry to the hospital wing and left him in Madame Pomfrey’s slightly irritable care.

Fortunately, she was more irritated with the three first-years (Ravenclaws, oddly enough) that had managed to be stupid enough to get caught in one of the trick stairs right before the staircase decided to move. Somehow, two of them had gotten stuck and the third was trying to pull them out when the staircase’s sudden movement had knocked her off balance and she’d crashed into her friends and all three of them had ended up with sprains and bruises. This kept Pomfrey from mother-henning Harry much, and she just made sure he had a meal she approved of.

She was so distracted that she left him there with the three first years and he managed to get the entire story out of them before his friends showed up to whisk him off to Snape’s dungeon classroom.

They were late. Not very late, mind you, but late nonetheless.

They hurried through the door, expecting acidic tongue-lashings and point loss—Snape merely raised an eyebrow. “Get to your cauldrons Granger, Weasley.”

Casting apologetic glances in Harry’s direction, they left him standing in the doorway, unsure what to do, while they moved to work on the potion Snape had assigned.

“Potter, don’t just stand there, get in here and go sit in that corner,” Snape pointed to a well-lit area away from the brewing, “Start reading the text for the Dreamless Sleep potion and for Merlin’s sake stay away from Longbottom’s cauldron.”

Harry blinked in total shock and the entire class stared at their Potions Master for several seconds. That had been almost… _nice_. For Snape, anyway.

Several times, Harry caught himself dozing as he read, the dull ache in his temples turning into a rythmic throb that he would have been more than happy to do without. The last time it happened, it was the near presence of Professor Snape that snapped him back awake.

Harry blinked. Snape had caught him sleeping in class! That should be very bad, but he couldn’t remember why.

“Mr. Potter,” there was clear irritation in that coice, “If your health is not sufficient to remain awake during class, you should not be here. Return to the hospital wing.”

“Yes, sir,” Harry managed, surprised but not quite sure what it was that he had been expecting. He stood—and staggered, blackness creeping across his vision while vertigo washed over him, his headache kicking up several more notches.

A strong hand caught his shoulder and steadied him until he caught his balance, but the throbbing in his head didn’t die back down. He opened his eyes and saw Snape’s obsidian gaze evaluating him, “You haven’t even noticed that the class has been dismissed, have you?”

Harry blinked and looked around. He hadn’t noticed, but the room was empty but for cauldrons in apparent stasis and the two of them. Through his headache, he couldn’t quite bring himself to care.

Snape ran his free hand through his hair with a muted sigh and eyed the boy criticly. If his general pallor and the stress lines around his eyes and forehead were to be believed, Harry was in pain. He also seemed… distracted, to say the least.

Severus steered the boy towards his office and sat him down before moving to the back of the dungeon and rummaging through a cabnet of his private potions. He pulled out a painkiller and handed it to Har—Potter, who looked at the vial blankly.

Snape gave a slightly less muted sigh and took it back, pried out the cork, and held it to the boy’s lips. “Drink,” he commanded. Undoubtably the boy’s friends would be hovering outside the classroom door, waiting for their precious Golden Boy to be returned to them. The sooner he got the dazed brat coherent, the sooner he could get rid of him.

That’s what he told himself, anyway. But the boy’s easy compliance brought a faint stirring of concern—Harry Potter did _not_ like or trust Severus Snape. It was common knowledge. But this was the second time Harry had drunk a potion handed to him by his most hated teacher without question.

Something was wrong with the boy.

Harry finished the vial and tilted his head down, “Thanks, Professor,” he murmured.

Snape stared and amended his previous thought. Something was _very_ wrong with the boy.

xxxx

Any suggenstions? I could use them  



	4. Chapter 4

  
Author's notes: Looks like Snape's feelings about a certain Gryffindor brat are starting to change--without his knowedge or concent, of course.  


* * *

_Disclaimer: Must I do this every chapter, or could everyone settle for a storywide? It's at the bottom of the page._

__

xxxx

“I am telling you, Albus, that there is something wrong with that child!”

Dumbledore gave his Potion’s Professor a considering look—the man wasn’t known for his caring concern, after all. “I haven’t seen any changes in his behavior, Severus,” he observed.

“Of course you haven’t,” Snape said scathingly, “It’s his treatment of _me_ that incites me to believe that there is something wrong.”

“Oh?” blue eyes twinkled irritatingly behind glass.

“He’s polite, _trusting_ , and cannot stay focused for any length of time,” Snape ran a hand through his hair, ruffling potion-greased locks, “I might have passed off his inattentiveness as a residual effect of whatever unknown Dark curses he was subjected to, but the boy has been treating me as a trusted friend! It’s no secret that he hates me—there is something wrong.”

“Ah,” the Headmaster’s twinkle faltered for a moment. “I see. Very well; I shall ask Poppy to have another look at him.”

The Potions Master gave a sharp nod before turning towards the door, “Good.”

_xxxx_

Poppy came out of the infirmary after giving Harry a much more thorough checkup, frowning. She glanced at the two waiting for her in the hall—Dumbledore’s presence was no surprise, but the fact that Severus had waited so long was… unexpected. “It looks as though Severus was right, Albus,” she announced.

The Head of Slytherin shifted slightly, straightening   
away from the wall, while Dumbledore himself sagged a bit, concern in his usually twinkling eyes.

“Well, it could be worse,” Madame Pomfrey continued, determined not to let those two get worked up while she had a sick child in her hospital wing. “His neural pathways are… burned, for lack of a better term. I don’t doubt he has a terrible headache, though he hasn’t said anything, and he can’t track more than one thing at a time for long. A good nerve regenerating potion and a few days rest should put him to rights.”

“So long as he avoids any more bouts with the Crucatius,” Snape muttered.

Madame Pomfrey shot him a dirty look, “Well, yes, there is that. The damage could become permanent if he’s subjected to any more curses before he recovers. I’d like for him to remain in the hospital wing until I’m sure he’s completely recovered.”

Severus turned to leave, “Then I suppose I shall begin a nerve regenerating potion.”

“Thank you, my boy,” Dumbledore’d voice drifted after him as he strode away.

Snape sneered at the form of address and decided to pretend he hadn’t heard.

_xxxx_

Harry was bored. No, bored wasn’t a strong enough term. Then again, he didn’t know another good term for ‘bored’, so he settled for the one he had.

He rolled onto his back and sighed, staring up at the stone ceiling above his bed in the hospital wing.

Bored, bored, bored, bored, _bored_. He didn’t even have his schoolbooks to read, and, aside from the headache, he felt all right.

Why was he in here again?

Right, mental torture session with Volde-mort.

Harry stifled a giggle as another thought occurred to him. Lord Voldy. Hm. That had a nice ring to it… ‘The Dark Lord Voldy’. He idly wondered what Voldemort would do if called that to his face.

Probably nothing nice. Then again, old snake-face was never nice, not really. Even the sixteen-year-old version had just been manipulative and creepy.

Then those thoughts melted away when a pattern of reflected light flashed across stone. He turned his gaze towards the window and saw white feathers flashing in bright sunlight as Hedwig settled on the sill, apparently trying to devise a way inside. The disgruntled bird settled for fluffing her feathers and flying off to look for another window after determining that she couldn’t get in through that one.

Harry’s attention returned to the flash of light against the wall before it vanished with Hedwig’s disappearance. He pouted. That shift of barely-there reflected light was the most interesting thing that had happened in the hospital wing all morning.

_xxxx_

Severus Snape had cancelled all his classes—to the joy and confusion of his students—for the next three days. Nerve regenerating potions, even the mildest and quickest to brew, took time and concentration. A missed step or one done even a few minutes off would ruin the entire potion and it would have to be dumped and started over.

Potter could not afford the time he had to wait to double. It was simply too dangerous—even a first-year jinx could set his recovery back by days’ worth, if any of the aspiring Death Eaters were to get wind of his weakness and try a curse…

Well, best not to think on that unless it actually had to be dealt with. He added diced sugar root to the bubbling potion and stirred three times counterclockwise before setting the large teak spoon aside and stepping back. Clear lavender and honey-thick—good. Now it had to simmer for five hours, which meant he could probably manage three or four of sleep. After that, the waiting periods would be a lot shorter and he wouldn’t be able to risk a nap for the next day or so.

Snape placed a shielding and monitoring charm over the cauldron and retreated to his bedroom to sleep.

_xxxx_

Harry snapped awake with a suddenness that startled him. He looked around for the source of his abrupt awareness and noticed Hedwig perched on the nightstand next to ‘his’ bed. She hooted softly.

“Hey, Hedwig,” Harry reached out and stroked her feathers, entranced by the strange feel under his fingers.

The snowy owl turned her head and nipped lightly at his fingers, making a concerned little purrl in her throat.

“’M’all right. Just a bit tired, that’s all.”

“Mr. Potter,” a stern and somewhat irritated voice said behind him. “Owls do not belong in the Hospital Wing.”

Harry jumped and turned, giving Madame Pomfrey a slightly guilty glance. “Sorry. She came in a few minutes ago… and I didn’t want to send her away.”

“Well,” the Mediwitch looked at Harry for several moments before sighing. “I suppose it can get rather lonely in here. So long as she behaves, she can stay for a while—but she spends nights in the Owlry where she belongs!”

Harry gave the woman a grateful smile that she couldn’t help but return, “Thanks, Madame Pomfrey.”

_xxxx_

Hedwig was worried about her master. He seemed… different. Sometimes he reminded her of a fledgeling, and others he seemed more like the old gray owl that roosted with the red-haired flock. Errol, her master had called him.

But whether he looked around in wonder like a newly hatched chick or stared blankly through eyes that had watched brood-sibs die, there was a lingering something in his movement that spoke of pain—though her master seemed unaware of it.

And the adults of the flock of wingless in the castle spent much of their time looking at him like a mother with a wounded fledgling, the worry that he wouldn’t be there the next time they came to check. Something was hurting her master and, while she couldn’t fix it for him, she would at least remain with him to offer comfort for as long as she could.

_xxxx_

_Don’t ask where the Hedwig part came from—I haven’t the foggiest. I wasn’t planning to put in a Hedwig-POV. It just sort of… appeared. I know this is short… forgive me. I shall attempt to make the next chapter longer._

__


	5. Chapter 5

  
Author's notes: Snape discovers that the Potter boy might not be the spoiled brat he'd always thought he was. He doesn't care about the Potter whelp. He does NOT. Really. Minor swearing in this chapter.  


* * *

__

xxxx

Snape extinguished the blue fire beneath the cauldron with a flick of his wand and a relieved sigh. Finally, the potion was finished—thankfully, it also had a decent shelf-life, unlike a few of the stronger versions, which could only sit for a few days before losing their potency. No, this one would last two weeks, which made his life much easier, as the boy would need steady doses for at least one. He could make it in bulk and it would remain useful.

He carefully measured out a dose into a small vial and pocketed it to take to the infirmary—it was a bit warm, but that wouldn’t cause any harm. What he _wanted_ to do was go collapse in bed, as he hadn’t gotten more than four hours of sleep in the past three and a half days, but the sooner Potter got the first dose, the better.

He could bottle the rest to take to Pomfrey later.

__

xxxx

Harry blinked up at the ceiling of ‘his’ room, musing at the fuzzy patterns the moonlight cast across the stones. He wanted to go back to sleep, but whatever had woken him seemed determined to keep him awake, sending little frissions of anxiety skittering over his nerves.

Something was going to happen tonight—he was sure of that—and he was willing to bet that it wasn’t going to be good.

_xxxx_

Snape slid through the halls like a shadow, a habit of his as soon as the clock struck curfew, (the better to catch the unwary student—his usual impressive stalking made noise) and barely blinked at a twinge in his left forearm. It felt rather like an overtight muscle announcing its displeasure.

It was only a few seconds later, when the twinge morphed into a tingling burn, that he realized what it meant. Adrenaline started to wash the haze of weariness from his mind.

The Dark Lord was angry.

Shit.

Snape lengthened his stride, well aware that Potter’s mental barriers were at an all-time low from whatever had caused that last attack—the boy would be in no condition to keep the Dark Lord’s anger from his mind. The burn intensified, but Snape ignored the pain—it wasn’t the sharp, shooting agony of a Calling—trying to remember the last time he’d felt something similar.

If he remembered correctly, Potter had ended up in the Infirmary for a few days afterwards… and his (albeit feeble) Occulumency shields had been in place at the time. Without any such shields and in his current condition—he could be permanently crippled or worse. No matter how much he despised the boy… even Potter didn’t deserve that.

Snape broke into a run.

__

xxxx

Madame Pomfrey all but panicked when the alarm went off, informing her that one of her patients was in dire need of immediate attention.

She only had one patient.

__

xxxx

By the time Snape made it to the Hospital Wing, Madame Pomfrey was already beside Harry Potter’s bed, trying desperately to restrain the boy without using magic. He was convulsing silently, mouth open in a soundless scream.

“Poppy!”

“Severus, thank goodness! Come help me!”

He didn’t need to be told twice, moving forward to pin the boy’s shoulders to the bed, “The potion’s in my pocket,” he gritted out, surprised by the effort it took to hold down one scrawny child.

Madame Pomfrey took the hint and fumbled in the outer pockets of his robes until she came up with the single vial of nerve regenerator, which she immediately poured down the boy’s throat, holding his mouth closed and stroking his throat to make him swallow.

Potter jerked once, hard, breaking free of both of them and Snape grabbed for his wrist on pure reflex.

He felt his hand close over too-cold flesh—then a jolt of magic crackled through him, harsh and untamed. Snape gave a short cry of surprise and his own magic welled up in counter, melding with the crackling force that could only be Potter’s, calming and gentling it. His magic flowed outward in a way he’d never even thought was possible, using the hand through which the boy’s magic raged as a locus to quiet the storm in Potter’s veins.

Snape released the boy’s wrist and recoiled, confusion and anxiety crashing through him in a torrent as wild as Potter’s magic had been a heartbeat before. He shook his head, staggering back a few steps, dazed. He was vaguely aware of Madame Pomfrey turning towards him, then the Dark Mark flared with the pain of a Calling and shoved him into unconsciousness.

__

xxxx

White, white, gray-brown, more white… From the color scheme, this was the infirmary. Early morning, if one were to believe the lighting from the window.

And that, if he wasn’t mistaken, was a standard monitoring charm… one used by parents to keep tabs on small children during the night. Which made sense, after a fashion, if Madame Pomfrey wanted to know when he woke—but the type of charm was downright insulting.

It also meant the fussy woman was going to be arriving any second.

Damn.

His first impulse was to get up and leave, but he knew that was likely a bad idea. Even lying down he felt a bit dizzy. He had almost resigned himself to a very long day when the sense of dizziness tripled and he felt as though he was swaying before dimming back down—what the hell?

Maybe he did need to be in the infirmary. He had the sudden desire to speak to Madame Pomfrey, to ask what had happened, what was wrong with him. She hadn’t arrived yet—where was the woman? She never took that long to check on a waking patient unless she knew someone else was in the room with them. And he was relatively certain he would have noticed someone beside his bedside, considering he had his eyes open.

So. Obviously she either thought he would rather be left alone—which had never stopped her before—or she had someone else to take care of and assumed he’d be all right for a few minutes. Or she’d slept through the alarm, but that was even less likely than the ‘leaving him be’ idea. Which meant that something was wrong with Potter.

Something tightened in him at the thought, tensing in a way that was wholly unfamiliar and more than a little disturbing in its intensity.

His train of thought was broken when Madame Pomfrey bustled over to his bedside, “Well, Severus, I’m glad you woke up, but I would like you to stay here the rest of the night for monitoring. We’ll need to speak to Albus in the morning…” she sighed, plopping down in the chair next to the bed.

Snape opened his mouth to ask why, but the words he actually spoke were “How’s Potter?”

Poppy started, then offered a wan smile, “Of course, I’m sorry. He’s… as well as can be expected, considering. He’s still unconscious, so it’s difficult to tell, but it looks as though he’ll be all right. If you hadn’t brought that potion when you did, well, I don’t want to think about what could have happened. Even with it, I’m not sure he could have made it, but after what you did… he’ll survive. Thank you, Severus.”

_What_ I _did?_ He started to sit up, feeling at a disadvantage laying down, “And what, exactly, did I do?” He remembered the raging torrent of Harry’s magic and how his own had somehow soothed it, but what that meant, he had no idea.

“Lie back down!” Madame Pomfrey barked, suddenly on her feet and glaring.

Snape was no fool—he knew when he was outmatched. He meekly did as he was told and waited.

The woman sighed, running a hand through her hair, “I’m sorry Severus. That was a bit harsh. You’re suffering from physical and acute magical exhaustion. You shouldn’t be moving about until your magic has recovered somewhat.”

She sighed again, “And you, well… bonded the boy to you.”

“I _what!?_ ” 

_xxxx_

_So, I'm alive, believe it or not. I'd tell you why this took so long, but it's a long and mostly depressing story that I'm just starting to get over, so I think I'm not going to dwell on it anymore. I'll try to get the next chapter out a bit sooner.  
_


	6. Chapter 6

  
Author's notes: Snape finds out that Harry may not be the spoiled brat he'd always thought. He does not care about the Potter whelp. He does NOT.  


* * *

_xxxx_

He had Bonded.

No—impossible. Such a bond had to be willing, on both sides. Though he hadn’t wanted the boy to die, he didn’t wish to be Bonded to the brat, certainly not _for life._

…On both sides. Surely Harry bloody Potter did not wish to be stuck with his Potion’s Professor, again not for life. Or at all, from previous experience.

Bonded. How? _Why?_

And what was he going to tell the boy?

At least—if Poppy were correct (and she nearly always was)—he would have several days to decide how to inform the child.

_xxxx_

A whisper of disturbed air quickly followed by the soft clack of talon against wood sent Severus starting awake and jerking around, wand and gaze leveling towards his child’s bed.

Surprised amber met suddenly puzzled black. Harry’s owl?

The owl hooted mournfully and fluttered down to the pillow, moving to preen the boy’s hair before looking back up at Snape, soft gold questioning—pleading.

“He will heal, little one,” Severus said, not knowing the owl’s name.

To his surprise, the bird seemed to understand, hooting in a much happier tone before flapping up to the headboard and settling in as though standing watch.

_xxxx_

Harry woke alone, in the dark, feeling terribly small and vulnerable. He had the immediate desire to see Snape, the man who had helped him in his periods of confusion and weakness.

He didn’t even think to question the desire as he curled up, groggy and shaking with weakness.

A soft hoot startled him and he jerked, looking around almost wildly until his eyes caught a blur of white. “Hedwig?”

The owl hooted again, fluttering down to settle next to her master’s head.

Harry reached out to stroke her feathers, mildly comforted by the familiar presence, but still feeling unreasonably frightened and alone. “Could you… could you find Snape for me, girl?”

Understanding the pleading in her master’s tone, the owl hooted softly and took off to find the one her master wished to see.

_xxxx_

Down in his office, Severus Snape’s head snapped up as he was grading papers, a small frown crossing his face.

Something was… different in his bond with the boy. Anxiety tugged at his heart and he had almost decided to go check on his new charge when a determined white-feathered whirlwind descended on him through the owl chute.

Snape was on his feet and following the bird before he’d consciously decided to do so, obscurely glad that it was so late and no students were about to see him all but running through the halls.

He barely restrained himself from slamming the Hospital Wing door open, but a latent desire not to frighten the boy reminded him that loud noises were a bad idea. As he entered he noticed several things—one, the boy was responding to the owl that glided across the room to land on his nightstand, and two, that a certain nurse was nowhere in sight.

Where was Pomfrey? She never left patients unattended directly after they woke.

On second thought, it didn’t matter. Though few knew it, Severus was a fully qualified Medi-Wizard. He would see to the boy himself.

_xxxx_

This will hopefully be the shortest chapter you see from me. The next chapter is about a third finished already, so the wait should be a good deal shorter this time. (Sorry, I forgot to post this one once I finished writing it.) 


	7. Chapter 7

  
Author's notes: Severus Snape finds out the Potter whelp may not be the spoiled brat he'd always thought. He does not care about the Potter whelp. He does NOT.  


* * *

Chapter 7

Whatever he had been expecting when approached the bed, it was not having the Potter boy jump up and latch onto him like a long-lost relative and _cling._

No one _clung_ to Severus Snape, not for any reason.

And here was the son of his most hated… schoolboy enemy… _clinging_ to him.

He found he had absolutely no idea how to react. On the one hand, he wanted to pull away, as this was an uncomfortably unfamiliar situation and he had never been good at being _comforting_ to begin with. On the other, the boy was now his responsibility—an emotionally unstable responsibility, it appeared. Pulling away could cause great damage to an already fragile situation and he didn’t need the Bond to know it.

After a moment, Severus cautiously lowered his arms to the boy’s shoulders and offered a tenative hug before equally carefully pushing the distraught child to arm’s length, examining him with a Healer’s critical gaze.

“You should not be out of bed, Potter,” he observed aloud, steering the child (backwards) towards the bed and gently forcing him to sit.

“Sorry, sir,” Harry lowered his gaze to the floor, flinching. He should have known better than to react like that—it was Snape, for Merlin’s sake!

Snape cursed silently, not knowing what he had done for that wave of fearful, shamed depression to wash over the bond. “Potter—Harry—”couldn’t keep calling him ‘Potter’ now that the boy was his ward—“calm down. I’m not angry.”

The boy should not be afraid of him. It felt… _wrong._

The feelings filtering through the bond lightened, touched with something else—hope?

“You’re not?”

Severus sighed quietly, “No, Harry, I’m not.”

The boy relaxed, a draining of tension that the Potions Master hadn’t even noticed building up past a strange tightening on the edge of his mind that he had brushed aside as irrelevent. But the tightness eased as the boy sagged back against the sheets and allowed himself to be looked over.

Nothing serious, but Severus had never considered himself an expert on the nervous system and knew he would feel better if Madame Pomfrey also took a look at the child—where _was_ the woman? She was better at the whole ‘comforting’… thing, as well.

He mentally shook himself—Severus knew exactly what he was avoiding, now that the opportunity had arisin.

What was he going to tell the boy?

“Po—Harry,” he began, only to stop, uncertain.

“Professor?” There was hesitence there, and questioning. “Why are you calling me ‘Harry’?”

And that, of course, was the perfect opening—that Severus was loathe to actually take. Still…

“You are my ward, now, Harry.” He’d never really done tact, anyway.

He wasn’t sure what response he was expecting, but it was not the one he received. Confusion and hopeful anxiety washed through him, a torrent so strong that for a moment he was uncertain who the feelings belonged to.

“Your ward?” The feelings were ehoed in the boy’s voice, as though he wasn’t sure he had understood correctly.

“Yes, Harry, my ward.”

Hope filtered through a bit stronger, “What does that mean, sir?”

Severus repressed the urge to sigh again and began to explain.

_xxxx_

Severus found himself strangely pleased at how well the boy took the news once he actually understood. He had been expecting… here Severus hesitated. He didn’t actualy know what he had been expecting, but the hopeful, if slightly apprehensive, repressed excitement on the edge of his mind was certainly not it.

“You mean I don’t have to go back to the Dursleys’?”

And quite suddenly it all made sense. Though he wished it didn’t—that the boy would rather be with someone he had long seen as an enemy than his own family spoke volumes about their treatment of him.

“No, Harry, you will not have to return to the Dursleys’.”

And the emotionaly unstable whelp sat up and hugged him again.

_xxxx_

Severus returned to his quarters that night filled with a turmoil unlike anything he had felt before. Some of it, he was certain, was the bond settling into place and the boy’s own lingering confusion, but the rest…

He did not like being proven wrong. More especially when it involved something like this.

The Dursleys needed to be punished.

And that was probably the Bond speaking, it’s enforced protectiveness coming out as anger at the ones that had so hurt Harry.

And that—Harry. Severus was uncertain when he had begun to think of the boy by his given name, but he was relatively certain it had actually been before the Bonding—another puzzling fact.

Snape sighed forcefully, turning to his training as an Occlumens to put the thoughts out of his mind. Dwelling on these things would not change what was.

… And he wasn’t even sure he _wanted_ to change this. It felt… _good_ … to be needed.

__

xxxx

I know I promised it would be up sooner—and I think that it actually is _—but it did take loner than I had planned. My Dad collapsed and there was quite a bit of testing done before the conclusion ended up being that his blood-pressure medication made him pass out and the impact with the ground caused a brain-bleed. He’s all right, now._

_Then Grandma died and things are still a bit hectic from that, but I needed to take a break from the real world for a bit, so I started writing._

_Although I'm not sure I managed the_ longer _bit, sorry.  
_


End file.
